Train on a Cliffside
by Phoenix's Moon
Summary: It takes a while for Ed to return home, but he's promised that he will. An Elric never breaks their promises.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Well, here's my little contribution towards Christmas stories. This is going to be three short stories that somewhat relate to each other, all based on a world where Ed wanders away from Rockabell after Al dies. Yes, this takes place in an AU. E__ach story is a different length. Some have multiple parts. Some don't._

_Anyways, Happy Holidays and enjoy!_

_Part 1_

_The Village Knows_

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><p>Everyone knows anyone in the small town of Rockabell. The baker knows the blacksmith's daughter in an intimate sort of way, but the blacksmith's daughter dreams of the voice of the boy who sits on the fountain edge and feeds the bird bread crumbs. The boy on the fountain knows the group of kids who live up the hill and they all know the son or daughter of some shop owner. The shop owners know their customers, for courtesy's sake, and the customers are so talkative that they may as well be sitting down at every person's table for dinner on any given day of the week.<p>

The village knows the mechanics who live on the outskirts of town. They're the ones who make the fake arm for the stable boy who was trampled over by horses as a kid, or the ones who repair the automatic chimneys of the rich as winter creeps in, or the ones who spruce up the farmer's tractor by giving it a new engine. The kids know the mechanics through their toys, mysterious and filled with strange compartments that pop out as their miniature racecars move farther down pebbled roads

The mechanics know the Elrics, who are gone far from town, meeting the new people that don't live the same old routines every day and having adventures that boggle the minds of the children. On their rare visits to town, the Elrics bring exotic spices and scents of fire and smoke and life and death. Although he is taller, the younger is the one who insists that his older brother place the incenses on high shelves scattered about the blacksmith's place. The older huffs and groans and yells about being a pipsqueak, but manages to get the job done with ladders constructed out of floor boards and flashes of blue lightening.

The Elrics fill their visits with empty words and bickering, senseless mutters to keep real life hidden away. The mechanics can see the pain in their eyes though, deep, running through their pupils like knives and slicing their dreams in half. When the older brother excuses himself from the household and ventures outside, the mechanics know that he's given up, even though the younger brother still sits at their dining table, hunched over so he doesn't bang against the ceiling, his armored fingers interlocking.

The kids of the town know where the older Elric goes; to the top of the hill, where a single grave lies. They trail him at first, slingshots loaded and ready to fire upon him, but with a glare the Elric dispels them. They scatter like crows, leaving him alone as he gets down on his knees, pants soaked by the mucky ground.

The mechanics know when and why the elder Elric screams; all so alone and without a mother. But they don't flee their house and try to find him. They know that he needs time, so much time, to heal the wounds on his heart.

The village all knows of the Elric on the hill and are displeased when he screams, the sound shattering their silly ideas of peacefulness with its pain. Yet there is little to be done, for they fear him and his mysterious manners; the way he can transform anything into anything else, the way his face is always smiling yet his aura is always dripping black, the way he can disappear from their lives and then reappear like nothing's gone wrong.

When the boys leave, everyone is standing solemn at the train stop. Silence. One can almost see the still air.

But the town can still carry on, the kids annoying the baker's new wife as she pins after the fountain boy, the mechanics fixing up the tractor for the farmer who has to harvest all the crops so the wedding cake can be made, the townspeople waiting in anticipation for the bride and groom to kiss.

Roaring into the station, the train is covered with white lace and giant drapes of cloth. 'Newly Weds' is emblazoned on the back. A man in tuxedo sits on the railing of the final car. His blonde braid drapes over his shoulder like a belt of a roman warrior and his red coat flaps in the wind. At the edge of his eyes are tears which are wrenched away from the edges of his face by the wind.

The mechanics stand at the train stop, adorned in frilly white dresses and bouquets. Behind them is an older man, blonde and broad shouldered. The blonde on the train looks at the group, meeting the older man's eyes. Then the stranger looks away, hiding his face in the shadow of the train's lip. A long screech fills the air, distracting all eyes from the lone man on the train to the front of the train, where a couple, arm in arm, eyes lock, board.

The kids, dressed in confining suits and bothersome corsets, cheer alongside their parents. Just noise. The air sizzles with sound.

Chugging, the train leaves the station, the braid and coat of the man on the back flying in the wind.

This time, no one knows where the man is going; why he's going; who he is.

The elder Elric, now alone.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

_The Long Way Home_

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><p>The snow covers the train station in crumpled blankets. It crunches beneath high heeled shoes and army boots, sneakers and children's flats, padded paws and horse hooves. Not a single foot is left untouched by flakes of white and not a single square inch of snow can escape the filth of shoes.<p>

A blonde man sits on the bench on the platform, his leather pants slowly soaking as snow melts beneath his bottom. His red trench coat stands out like a blood stain and his black gloves are slowly bleached by the cold. A kid stands at the bench next to him, looking at the empty train tracks.

"Sir?" the kid's face is covered in filth and his puckered cap is a strange shade of blue-gray. "You waiting for something?"

The man stares ahead at the train tracks, his eyes dull and his lips pressed into a pink line. "No," he finally says.

"Jus' tell me if you do," the boy says, bowing over to the man. "I'll do anything for a penny, sir."

The man in red sighs and rummages through one of his coat pockets, his hand emerging with a silver penny. He flicks it over to the boy. "Get something."

"Sir?"

"You're half starved," the man says and indeed the boy is. The boy's cheeks are hollow and his chin is pulled taunt over his skull. His Adam's apple reaches deep into his throat and his collarbones stick out like towel racks.

"Tha- Thank you sir," the boy says. He cups the silver disk like it's a diamond, admiring its shine. The boy starts to run off.

The man scoffs and turns back to the train tracks. The air is a pair of pliers grabbing at his nose and the cold is the man who clenches his shoulder tighter, tighter, until he can't move anymore.

"Merry Christmas!"

The man turns and sees the boy sheepishly bowing, people filtering back and forth in front of him.

"My manners slipped me!" The boy yells. "Thank you and Merry Christmas!"

The man shakes his head, sending snow flying off of his blonde braid, and resumes to the tracks. Now there's a bubbling feeling in the man's stomach that crawls up his throat and threatens to pour out of his mouth in frothy waterfalls. To keep it at bay, his jaw tightens, but his lips still begin to curve and his cheeks still start to dimple.

"Kid," he yells out into the crowd and lo and behold, the kid appears out of thin air.

"Sir?"

"You want to hear a story?"

"Sir, you've already fed me," the boy shifts from foot to foot. "I'd hate to in- imp- inp…"

"Impose," the man corrects. "It's impose."

The boy blushes and bows over to hide it. "Sorry sir."

The man pats the spot on the bench next to him. The snow evaporates with a flash of blue light, and the boy watches on, his eyes opened to where water collects in his tear ducts. "Sit down," the man says.

"You're an alchemist?" the boy brushes off his jeans, sending little poofs of dust into the air, before he sits next to the man, careful not to touch their legs together.

The man smiles and begins to weave tales of traveling across arid deserts with no water, accompanied by a suit of hollow armor. He tells of glowing red stones and miracles that could bring people back to life. When the boy's eyes widen even more, the man drops his voice and starts to tell the kid about meeting the kings of foreign countries and his travels to places with giant airships and boxes called televisions.

Maybe, just maybe, this Christmas won't be so lonely after all.

The train rocks beneath the man, sending him from side to side, coaxing his muscles into relaxation. The windows fog with condensation and there is clanging when he slides up against the wall. His gloves and his coat are still on, despite the warmth.

"Kid," a black haired man sits next to the blonde, not minding when he scoots away.

"Mustang," the man says. "Nice to see you."

"You too."

The blonde nods in acknowledgement.

Are you doing okay?" Mustang asks, moving closer to the man. "You know, now that Al's gone?"

The man looks out the window. The snow turns the night sky outside into a flurry of white and covers absolutely everything in sight. Not even the train's wheels are left untouched, for the snow instantly replaces whatever they fling off.

"Kid?"

"I'm not a kid," the man says.

"Edwa-"

"Shaddup, Mustang," the man says. "Leave me alone or don't talk about Al."

Al. His brother. Is it really too hard of a subject to avoid?

Mustang and the man sit next to each other in silence, the train clanking along beneath them. When Mustang scooches over on the seat, the man scooches closer to the window. When Mustang tires to put his hand on the man's shoulder, the man places his brown briefcase between them, gives Mustang a poisonous glare and the middle finger. When Mustang literally corners the man and succeeds in touching him, the man gets up and moves to the other side of the train.

An aisle separates the two, both refusing to speak. The air is tense and if air could break, it would have. The woman behind Mustang coughs in discomfort, and instantly the man's and Mustang's eyes are upon her. She glares at both in response, and Mustang sighs.

"Kid," Mustang says. "Just come back here."

The man rolls his eyes. "Nope." He opens up the window on his side of the train. His coat flaps in the wind as he clutches the frame and jumps up to the sill, his boot heels firmly hooked on the shaking metal. His hair threatens to escape his ponytail.

"Get back here." Mustang almost screams. The woman behind him growls, but Mustang pays no mind. He's on his feet immediately, his hands poised as if they were to throw a knife at the man.

The man shrugs and jumps out, rocketing backwards as the boxcars speed by him. The snow forms a white curtain between him and Mustang, who is frantically waving over to the man.

"GET BACK HERE!"

The man smiles as he disappears into the dark of the night and is thrown into a snowdrift. For the first time in a long time, he feels alive. His heart threatens to pump out of his chest and the world around him is tinged red and his neck hurts when he breathes and his shoulders are so close to his cheeks. The only reason he isn't overheating is because of the penetrating cold around him.

He's part of an adventure again. He can run away and no one will ever be able to find him. _He's free._

Since Al- since Al hadn't been there, things had been different. The man could remember times when his brother led him to places where he'd never been, when his brother had forced him to bed at night so they could rest and take off in the morning, how they'd spent hours diving into books so they could perform miracles. The man couldn't remember a time when Al wasn't there.

_But now Al wasn't_. It was just the man, buried deep into the snow, clutching his briefcase like it was a life line.

Then the man recalled the kid, standing all alone on the platform. Was that why the man was so inclined to help the boy out, because the boy reminded the man of himself? Alone and cold?

Maybe.

The man shivers as he sits in front of a fire, its tongues licking his frostbitten hands and slurping the snow off of his jacket. He's soaked to the bones, and his clothes are no exception. He blows on his lips like he's a horse before inching another foot closer to the fire.

The lights in the room are all turned off, only the fire casting a warm glow upon the furniture and the man. His briefcase sits behind him, its leather stained by water and its golden locks tinged orange near the hinges. The red floral chair behind him is covered with dripping papers and matted ink quills. The carpet beneath the chair slowly soaks as water falls down.

"Stupid Mustang," he mutters. "Getting involved." His hair is soaked through and bangs against his back as he curls up into a tight ball.

There's a banging at the door and the man sighs. "Yes?"

"Sir," the voice is sheepish and too high pitched. "I have your dinner."

"Bring it on in."

The maid open the door with one hand, her other preoccupied with balancing a tray of steaming chicken. She walks over to the coffee table behind the man and places the tray down. "Here you go sir. Anything else I can get you tonight?"

The man waves his hand in dismissal, and the maid disappears as quickly as she appeared. He is left in peaceful silence, him and the wavering fire. It's almost eerie. The man expects to turn around and see his brother fretting over the papers on the chair, panicking about all the research that the two had lost. But when the man turns around, there's just ink running across yellowing pages and the chair, sitting solemn as it watches over the man.

The man smiles, but his mouth barely reaches his cheeks and his teeth are completely covered by his frosty lips. His eyes are wide open, tears collecting in their edges. He feels like shit, with his arms freezing and his head hurting like someone's taken a jackhammer to it and his ribs curling inwards and everything aching. The fire warms the tears that hang on the edge of his nose, and they feel like they're going to burn right through the man's skin.

"Want you to get me Al," he quietly says to himself.

The food is left untouched as the man falls asleep on the carpet, the moist fibers drowning his awareness and plunging him into the cold.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3

_Cliffside_

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><p>She sits at the edge of the cliff, her legs dangling down like streams, swaying steadily in the wind. The wind caresses her, smoothing out her clothes and tugging her bandana farther over her hair. Her braid is pulled into a spiked tail.<p>

"Hey," a blonde haired boy sits next to her, his arm clinking against the ground.

She ignores him and continues to look down. The cliff tumbles along like a rocky desert, with sporadic plinths and waves that reach towards the other side. Dead roots protrude from the hard face, hanging down like threads. A river rages at the bottom of the cliff face, splashing upwards and kissing her feet, even though they are hundreds of yards above.

"What if I were to run again?" the boy asks. His braid flies in the wind, wavering behind his head like a wisp of smoke. "What if I were just to get up and never come back?"

"I'd cry," the girl says. "I'd wait at his grave for you and I'd cry."

"Huh," he says and looks down to the bottom of the cliff, watching the currents fight against each other in clashes of roaring thunder. "What would you do if I jumped?"

"Goddamn it, Ed," the girl looks down and sighs. "I'd jump after you."

"What if I were to disappear?"

"I'd disappear with you."

"But what if you died?"

They sit there in silence, the water clamoring for their response. The wind blows the girl's bandana over her head, throwing it to the gods of the raging river, and whips the edges of the boy's cloak in every direction.

"I'd hope you keep going," she finally says. "I'd hope that you come back to me someday, but that you could yell your name to every person you meet and smack every idiot upon the head."

"But-"

The girl can see tears collecting in the boy's eyes, before the wind banishes them to the atmosphere, leaving glittering streams hanging in the air. His smile is strained, like he's trying to make her happy by smiling but that's the only reason why.

"If-if you were to leave," he says, his voice raw and quiet. "I- I- I'd be alone."

"You wouldn't," she says, leaning into his side. She can feel him stiffen under her, his side tight and her skull banging against metal. His arm is cold but it slowly warms under her and his rapidly growing body heat, just like they're melting an ice cube together. That's a strange thought in itself, the two childhood friends on top of each other, an ice cube sandwiched between them.

His face is a furnace, heating up more and more until the girl can only feel is his warmth. She can feel his ribs tread across her face, her cheekbone sliding from stripe to stripe of rib. His heart beats faster and faster, a drum that fills her with adrenaline and pushes her to drape her hand over his stomach.

She moves her hand over top of his heart. "I'd be in here," she says, her voice muffled by him.

The boy sits there, hesitant, before he slowly moves his hand onto her. The polished joints of his fingers are hidden underneath his satin gloves, but the girl can still feel them grinding away as he cups her side. They caress her like a warm towel, massaging her slowly as he rubs his hand around in circles, as if to reassure her. But he's the one still teary, and he's the one with the rough outline of a bandage peeking out from under his skin tight black shirt.

"Don't leave," he says as the wind encloses them in their own little world. "I don't want you to leave."

"As long as you don't go running off."

"Please."

She brings her legs off the edge of the cliff and her knees to his legs. "Not gonna."

And she doesn't. The fading sun drifts away so the moon can peer upon the couple, who rely on each other in the moonlight. Their hair tangles together as the boy's braid unwinds, and as it grows colder, he lifts his jacket arm off and drapes half of the red cloth over the shivering girl. His metal arm gleams in the moonlight, a steady lighthouse for the girl's eyes to look at until she is guided into the port of sleep.

The boy waits until her eyes close to take off his jacket completely and drape it over the girl. He sits there, girl quite literally on hip, shoulders facing the brutal cold like two giant shields, his metal arm warmed by the girl on him, and his other decorated with ornate runes that climb up to the seam of his neck.

He has reasons to run, reasons to hide, but for the night, he can stay still and enjoy the peaceful sky.

When the girl opens her dreary eyes the next morning, she finds the coat tucked under her sides like a sleeping bag and a pillow of leaves contained by her bandana under her head. The boy is nowhere to be seen; all that is left of him is his coat, a indent in the ground where his metal hand rested, and a spot of warmth on her cheek. She gets up, shaking the rot of the leaves from her hair, and drapes her legs back over the edge of the cliff until moonlight, and the man, come once more.

But the next time they meet- two months later- the snow is falling down on the side of cliff, turning it into a precarious slide. Jagged chunks of ice cloak the bottom of the valley, turning it into an inhabitable, frozen tundra.

The girls is hidden away in her room, her face pressed to the window, looking at the flakes that fall to the ground like rocks. Fog creeps up the frosty pane, turning it into an impenetrable sea of clouds. She moves her hands to the window, moisture accumulating on her mittens. The heating cut out four hours ago and the house is just as cold as- if not colder- than the icy world outside.

Leaving streaks of water on the window, she wipes it clear.

And she runs downstairs.

On the road that winds up to her house, a single figure is hunched over. He holds his frosted red jacket close to his sides with his elbows. His fists are clenched and thrust into his pockets and he is constantly breathing on his right shoulder. A stiff braid hangs down his back, its interlocking strands covered with snow and frozen into perfection.

The girl flings open the door. Precious heat dashes outside, melting the snow on the front steps before it ices back over. The boy breaks into a run.

Footprints are quickly covered by the snow as the boy runs into the warm glow of the house, almost knocking the girl over.

"I found it," he gasps. "I can bring him back."

Red seeps through the cracks of his gloves as he lifts his right arm up. He opens his hand and there, in the middle, is a ruby like stone. It glows happily, its round edges containing the power that wants to transform everything around it.

"That's- That's- The Philosoph-" the girl begins to say, but the boy covers her mouth with a cold, covered finger. Warmth slowly seeps into her lips.

"Yeah," he whispers. "I found it, Winry. And it's real, and old, and- and- god. I _found _it."

The girl stands there. Her legs are glued to the floor. The door is left hanging open, letting the storm outside literally freeze her in place. "Oh."

"He could have a body, Win. He could hold a kitten, or run, or taste your chocolate milk, or live. Live, he could live."

She tries to move her mouth to object, but his eyes, open, gold, so sad, have a glimmer of hope crawling along their edges. She can't- just can't- crush this. There's memories of the boy sitting between two graves as if he wishes to become a coffin and be buried there, a third grave, lush with flowers and rusting chunks of armor lying behind him. His eyes are empty and their vibrant gold has faded into brown, dull and akin to tree bark. Then he's tossing leather bound journals into a roaring fire, its tongues clamoring for more and more until the towering stack of papers next to him have all been burnt to ashes. Then he's coming out of the shower with his shoulder scrubbed so raw that it almost obscures the red flamel that's been inked into his left shoulder. He leaves his wet hair hanging down his back like a flaccid dog tail.

But now, that boy's so different. Even though he's wincing from the pain that must be shooting through his nerves from the press of his chilly metal arm and tearing from the hard hammer of his metal leg on his hips, his smile is impish and reaches to his ears. His eyes are gold again. His cowlick is already springing back up and his bangs are already thawed and clinging to his face.

"Oh," the girl says. "Oh."

The boy's face instantly softens. "Are you okay? Is this wrong?"

"It's just that," the girl rubs her legs together, warming up the cargo material of her pants.

"What?"

"You'd be bringing someone back to life."

The boy stills, his fingers wrapping around the stone and his arms falling to his sides. "So no? It's wrong?"

"Why?" the girl whispers, voice raw from the tightening of her throat. "Why would you want to? He's had enough trouble already. He'd kill you if you brought him back. He'd be alive again, Ed; he only wanted to make up for what he did.

What if you make him into a homunculus? What happens then? Will you kill him like you did your mom, or would you leave him to suffer? He'd be like Wrath; confused, lost, and so young. What if he loses a limb like you did? What if you have to bind his soul to something again? What would you do, Ed?"

The words slips through her lips like granules of sand. She can't hold them back and when she stops, the lump in her throat grows and her tears start to spill down. They freeze on her face quickly for the air outside continues to sap away the warmth inside.

The boy staggers as he moves towards her, his free hand reaching for her in desperation. "Please, Winry. It's the stone; everything will be fine."

"But it won't!" she screams as she slaps the boy. He recoils and lifts his hand up, feeling his cheekbone uneasily. "It took you two away for years. It wasn't just like you left on a vacation, Ed. You left me and Granny here. You didn't check in. You were in Central all the time, but you couldn't be bothered to send a letter. You only came back when Al died and then you left. Then you come crying back to me."

Her voice rises higher and higher. "You know what? If you want to get him back, then just go."

"Winry, you aren't making sense-"

"Go."

"Please. I need him, Winry. I want him here!"

She points out the door to the dark hole they call night. "Out, you monster."

The boy, for despite his surprising height and defined posture, that's all he really is, shrinks back. He picks himself up quickly, but his feet continue to revolt beneath him, causing him to limp towards the door. Breaking out into a run, the boy disappears into the night without a single reply.

A weight is attached to the girl's heart, dragging it down through her chest right into her stomach. Tears running down her eyes and insides revolting, the girl collapses to the ground.

"I'm sorry," she says, voice quiet. "Don't run. Please."

But the boy is far from earshot and is unable to hear her pleas. She gasps for air as her sobs wrack her ribcage. Where is he? What has she done?

The girl falls asleep with icicles hanging off her eyelashes and in a fetal position.

-00o-o0o-

"Winry? God, please wake up. Warm up. Please, oh please."

When the girl wakes up, there are warm tears sliding down her icy skin and pooling in the folds of a silken nightgown someone's slipped onto her. Gone are her mittens and her cargo pants; someone has stripped them off of her. Thankfully, or unfortunately, her underwear is till chafing her inner thigh and the hard underwire of her bra is still positioned beneath her breasts.

"Ed?" the girl asks, her eyes still half lidded and the world still blurry from sleep.

"Yeah," the boy confirms. "I'm here."

"Where the stone?" she says, her words slurring. "You use it?"

"Yeah," the boy says. "You were freezing to death and I couldn't lose you too."

"But you saved Al?"

The boy massages her hand, his flesh finger pressing relaxing circles into her palm. "It wasn't my foremost thought."

"Me?"

"Yeah, you, you idiot," the boy says. "It was you."

"You care."

"What do you think, that I'm a cold, emotionless suit of armor?" the boy jokes, but the girl instantly stiffens. The boy is making jokes about that- they'd agreed not to talk about armor per his request.

"Relax," the boy laughs. "It's okay."

"But you wanted to save him?"

"He did," the new voice is higher than the boy's, but not as high as the girl's, somewhat like the underdeveloped voice of a young boy.

"Al , shaddup," Ed says. And the boy is Ed- he no longer sounds lost. He's standing on his own two feet like a man. He's earned that name. He's no longer crying to the girl for help. He's helping her- her! She who helps him!

The girl rolls over, her face contorted in confusion. Her eyelids fly back as she sees another blonde haired boy, his face clinging onto the chubbiness of youth but his bony arms and legs rested upon a floral couch. His blonde hair flows loose and free to his waist, giving him the appearance of a female. He waves one shaky hand. "Hey."

"Al," the girl gasps.

"The first law of alchemy- humankind cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost," Al says.

"To give your life, then me to try and heal you- for some reason, the gate sees that as you giving up your life for Al's, then the stone allowing me to heal you up," Ed says with a smile creeping up his face.

The girl sits up slowly, her back and sides aching. She looks up to Al, tracing the outline of his body, making sure he hasn't been hurt. Funny thing it, she can see the curves of his ribs and the jut of his hip bones, but his face is still so pink and healthy.

"We're home," Ed says, sitting next to the girl. "We're not running this time."

After so many years, the girl feels complete. _Winry; _that's her name, beautiful, innocent, wonderful, hopeful, forgiving, Winry. Tears break from her eyes again, but this time they're of joy.

"Promise?" she asks.

The boys don't even have to look to each other in confirmation. They just smile and nod.

"Promise."

Spring eats away the ice on the cliff and Winry finds herself there, her legs bared to the world and her head tilted to the splatter painted sky. Ed and Al sit on both sides of her, their hands joined beneath her head, cushioning it from the rocky ground. The river below licks their feet and the sun above smiles upon their faces, their eyes, sparkling and bright, wide open.

It's funny, to Winry, how even after they've promised to stay they'll be gone on the next train out of town. But if the red coat left bundled under her head and the black military jacket draped over her shoulders are any indicators, at least this time she can be assured that they'll both return, alive.

The Elric brothers always come home.

That's a promise.


End file.
